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And with a sweeter aspect; as the pain,
The voice of labour gliding from the plain Is now distinctly heard, and the slow team Furrows the glebe-that glebe the Switzer loves To till his own dear native soil. He there Full many a lesson for his spirit finds, Breathing from mountain, lowland, or the vale, The sweets of liberty; while the big tear Of gratitude along his rugged cheek Wanders its silent way. Remembered well, The glooms so late that o'er his hills were spread, Dark as the curtains of the night around! Then dared he scarce to meet the smile of Morn, And yield like homage from his heavy heart, Lest by some secret foe maligned, his life Instant had paid the forfeit of his joy :*
• A Protestant gentleman, resident amongst the mountains of the Sevennes, in one of the southern provinces of France, in the course of conversation with the author, mentioned, that he recollected well the time, when no one dared to express his sentiments, even to those whom he
Or worse to some lone dungeon's noisome damps
The shepherd now afar Upon the upland-green's acclivity Unpenns his bleating charge, and peaceful guides Them to the thymy hill. The lambs oft-times, As I pursue his winding path, I see Him carry
in his bosom : those that are With young he gently leads, and with a step More staid and tranquil they attend his call. Good shepherd ! May they know thy voice in time To come, and all thy tenderness with love Repay! I gaze on him awhile; and still My heart beats slower, as more fixed my gaze. Sense seems absorbed in meditation sweet!
had once regarded as his most intimate and confidential friends, lest he should be denounced by them, and led to the guillotine.
The public walks, so much frequented in France, were deserted; and a gloomy silence pervaded alike town and country.
Methinks that in his countenance I read
The lines Of age upon his brow are strong, yet calm. Serenity dwells there, with Hope-blest Hope, That soars above this evanescent scene, And sweetly seats her in a world beyond, Where sin and sorrow are alike unknown, Exiled the blissful region. In that eye, Loured in no scowl of malice, speaks a soul, Where peace is not a stranger. Not of pride It tells but of humility, and joy Unutterable--gift benign of heaven To mourning, penitent, unworthy man.
I see him look upon his gentle charge;